10,000 Years Too Late

By Shen's calculations, they had been in the "spaceship" for five days now. Five days without food, five days without showers—yet none of them exhibited the slightest hunger or discomfort. Their bodies simply carried on, as if the need for full stomachs or clean skin no longer applied.

Shen recorded these observations in a journal he'd discovered in one of the drawers. Its pages were crisp and white, as if newly made, and the pen likewise seemed to manifest exactly when he needed it. He could not recall when or how he'd acquired it, only that it had appeared in his hand at the perfect moment. Such gaps in memory were common here.

He paused, pen hovering above the page, as familiar voices drifted through the thin walls. Dana and Kayode were arguing again—a daily ritual that hinged on shared space and respect, the same debate replayed with fresh indignation each morning. Their anger, Shen reflected, seemed more about exerting control than anything else. Yet, curiously, for all their loud clashes, they sought each other's company more than anyone else's.

A flicker of movement caught his eye. Surya crossed the corridor toward Angela's room. No doubt he would find her as he always did—sleeping soundly—and take his usual place beside her, watching her breathe in silence. In those quiet hours, Surya seemed calmer, more at peace. Shen suspected he was faring the worst in their confinement, though he would never commit that judgment to paper.

A distant voice reached him: Alexander's morning vocal exercises. The corridors, prone to strange shifts and impossible spatial distortions, carried his song in unpredictable ways. Alexander's singing was extraordinary, and when he performed beside Angela's bed, it was the only sound she tolerated in her perpetual slumber. Sometimes, as his voice rose and fell, they swore they could hear her soft snoring in response.

Shen continued writing, carefully omitting certain details. Alexander's charm, for instance—how he seemed to direct it more toward Riley these days, how Shen had caught them yesterday, leaning in close as though sharing secrets. He left that unmentioned. Riley herself tended to be overlooked if you weren't paying attention. She navigated their world like a gentle current, effortlessly adapting to any plan, any circumstance. Yet she had a warmth that encouraged confidences, a quiet magnetism that made everyone want to confide in her.

The pen paused again. Shen considered their predicament: trapped together in this cramped, shifting space, placed here by some unknown force. Their minds were fraying around the edges. Yet paradoxically, these impossible conditions were forging closeness. Even Alexander, who had arrived guarded and proud, was drifting into their makeshift community's orbit, if only to escape his own solitary fears.

Suddenly, a metallic groan cut through his thoughts—the walls again, bending or stretching when no one dared to look directly. Shen noted it and then closed his journal. Some truths were better left unrecorded, like the fact that none of them spoke of their deaths, or how the environment seemed to be studying them as keenly as they studied it.

Outside, Dana and Kayode's argument reached a sharp crescendo. Soon, Riley would pass this doorway, bringing her gentle smile and steady patience to quell their tension. Shen watched for her shadow, wondering if today would bring answers, if they might finally understand why they were here.

In the distance, Alexander's voice rose once more, sending its melody through corridors that could not possibly fit inside this place. But then again, Shen thought, nothing about their captivity obeyed the rules of reality at all.

The scream shattered their carefully orchestrated morning routine. It came from Alexander's room: a startled, undignified yelp that drew everyone into the corridor. Shen arrived just in time to see Alexander—usually so poised—frantically swiping at his clothes, while Surya doubled over with laughter.

"Something crawling in your sheets?" Surya managed between gasps. "Must've been quite the surprise."

Alexander's face burned with anger as he plucked what looked like dozens of tiny mechanical spiders from his bedding. They clicked and whirred, their metal legs catching the stark light. "Where did you even get these?" he demanded, his usual charm stripped away, leaving only raw irritation.

"Found them," Surya said with a casual shrug, still grinning. "Or maybe they found me. This place is full of interesting toys if you know where to look."

Dana pushed through the onlookers, her expression grim. "We're trapped in here—maybe dead, definitely lost—and you think this is the time for pranks?"

"Exactly because of all that," Surya shot back, his grin fading. "What else are we supposed to do? Sit around contemplating our mortality? Count the hours until something finally changes?"

"Some of us are trying to understand our situation," Kayode cut in, stepping closer. "While you play games like a child—"

"Understand?" Surya's laugh turned sour. "Is that what you call your daily shouting matches with Dana? Very enlightening."

The tension tightened. Dana and Kayode exchanged a quick glance, momentarily united in their outrage. Even Riley, usually ready to soothe any conflict, hung back, perhaps sensing that this confrontation had been building for days.

"At least we're doing something," Dana said, her voice cold. "Not hiding behind jokes because we're too afraid to face reality."

"Reality?" Surya's playful manner vanished. "You want reality? Fine. We're dead. All of us. Instead of moving on, we're stuck in this impossible space with strangers, being watched by something that won't show itself. That's our reality."

Underneath the raised voices, the mechanical spiders clicked quietly, their tiny joints forming a metallic whisper. Shen noticed how the walls seemed to lean in, as if the space itself were listening.

"Nobody's hiding," Surya continued, voice rising. "I'm trying to keep us human. When was the last time any of you actually laughed? We're turning into ghosts before we've even decided if we're supposed to be dead!"

"That's enough," Alexander said. He had been silently collecting the scattered spiders, and now he straightened, holding one in his hand. His earlier fury had melted into something more thoughtful. "He's right."

"What?" Dana turned, surprised.

"Not about the prank," Alexander clarified, studying the tiny automaton. "But about staying human. These are actually quite clever. Must've taken hours to collect and program them."

Surya's posture eased. "Three hours, give or take. Had to do something while everyone else slept—or pretended to."

Alexander's gaze lifted, a glint of humor returning to his eyes. "Next time, maybe we work together. I have a few ideas that could top mechanical spiders."

The tension thinned, if not completely, then at least enough for Riley to step forward, wearing a small, knowing smile. "Planning a prank war? That ought to keep us busy for another day or two."

"'War' is too strong a word," Dana began, but Kayode rested a hand gently on her arm.

"Let it go," he said quietly. "Better this than another round of shouting."

As the group dispersed, Shen glimpsed Angela standing in her doorway. She must have woken during the commotion, but no one else noticed her. She caught his eye and gave a subtle nod before slipping back inside. Shen wondered, not for the first time, just how much she perceived during those silent hours of supposed slumber.

The mechanical spiders lay dormant now, their bizarre purpose served. Yet something about them continued to gnaw at Shen's mind. Where had they truly come from? And why did this impossible place grant them tools to stave off madness—journals, pens, intricate mechanical contraptions—while withholding the essentials of simple human life?

He retreated to his room and wrote another entry in his journal, leaving certain questions unasked for the time being. Sometimes, it was wiser not to push too hard.

In Alexander's room, he sat on the edge of his bed, still holding one of the tiny metal creatures in his hand. Its delicate, unmoving joints caught the dim light. The others had drifted away, except for Surya, who lingered uncertainly at the threshold.

"I wasn't trying to upset anyone," Surya said, hesitant. Alexander waved the apology aside.

"I know," he said, holding the spider up for both of them to inspect. "Look at this craftsmanship. It's like something from a dream."

Surya approached and settled beside him. "I found them in a drawer that didn't exist the day before. I opened it, and there they were, waiting. Like they knew I needed something to break the monotony."

"This place," Alexander mused, turning the tiny construct over in his hand, "it gives us what we need, even if it's not what we think we want. It's as though it's keeping us occupied, distracting us."

He traced the etched patterns on the spider's underside. Neither of them could guess at their meaning. Around them, the corridors carried the soft murmur of conversation—Riley and Kayode, voices low and steady. The lingering tension had already begun to fade, blending back into the quiet hum that defined their confinement.

For the moment, Alexander and Surya sat quietly, sharing a calm understanding born of curiosity and the faint comfort of something new, however inexplicable.

"I keep thinking about my last performance," Alexander said suddenly, breaking the companionable silence. "It was nothing special—just another night at the same bar I'd been playing in for months."

Surya frowned, caught off guard. "Wait, I thought you were an investment banker?" he asked, disbelief clear in his voice.

Alexander flashed a quick, self-deprecating smile. "I am—or I was. But I sang, too, when I wasn't drowning in spreadsheets. Anyway, I remember everything about that night: the warmth of the spotlight, the condensation on my water glass, the couple in the front row who couldn't have cared less." He set the mechanical spider down gently. "It's funny, the things that stick with you after you die."

Surya nodded slowly, accepting the revelation as a quiet offering. After a hesitation, he added, "I was grading papers." He met Alexander's startled gaze and gave him a look that promised silence—don't you dare tell anyone. "End-of-term essays. One kid wrote this piece about how people get so lost in their own problems, they start ignoring everyone else around them. I remember thinking 'Huh,' and meaning to talk about it in class." He gave a small, sad laugh. "I never got to hand that paper back."

Alexander opened his mouth to respond, but a strange noise cut him off. Both men turned toward the doorway.

Angela stood there, more awake than they'd seen her in days, pointing behind them. "The walls," she said quietly, voice urgent and eyes alert.